Clues
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Molly has no clue how Sherlock really sees her.


**Clues**

Molly stood silently by the detective as he circled the body that lay before them. This was the tenth body they were inspecting this evening. It was also the tenth brought in from a sudden slew of bodies being mysteriously deposited at the front doors across several homes in London.

"What am I missing?" muttered Sherlock under his breath. He stooped to his knees suddenly, so that he could observe the corpse at eye level.  
"Well, you've already studied the strange markings on the wrists, the paint under their nails…" began Molly as she flipped through her notes.  
"Yes, I have, haven't I?" sighed the detective, frustrated. He rose as abruptly as he had knelt and turned to the pathologist who was busily reading all the notes she had taken.  
"Go on.." asked Sherlock.

"You've also sent locks of their hair to the lab, you've taken swabs from their ears because you said they looked like they had some kind of ear plugs stuffed inside…" Molly continued, her eyes glued to her clipboard.  
"I see all these clues, these patterns, Molly…" said Sherlock, frowning, "But I am missing the connection. What has happened to these people?" Sherlock walked over to Molly and leaned against the shelf behind her. He inhaled deeply and stared up at the ceiling.  
"What is it, what is it, what is it…" he whispered rapidly, focusing his eyes on a little crack on the ceiling of the morgue.

"I think…you should take a break…" Molly suggested quietly, turning to look warily at the frustrated detective.  
"I need a break in the case, Molly, that's what I need." Sherlock replied, his voice strained and angry.  
"You've been at this since the afternoon, not stopped for dinner and it's already…tomorrow…" said Molly. She stifled a small yawn but tried to smile encouragingly at Sherlock whose eyes were still glued to the ceiling.

Molly walked over to the one desk at the morgue and rolled the chair on its wheels to where Sherlock was.  
"Here," she said, "looking up at him." Sherlock looked down at Molly and then at the chair, then back at her, puzzled.  
"Just…take a seat…and I'll make you a cup of coffee." she said, smiling gently at him, "Maybe it'll help you think better."  
"I don't need coffee, Molly, I just need…"  
"Answers…I know," she interrupted gently, "But have a coffee. It won't hurt."

Sherlock, who was in mood to argue over the necessity of coffee, simply took his seat and continued mulling over the bodies he had seen. Relieved that Sherlock was seated, Molly turned on her heels and headed for the door. Just as her hand reached for the handle, the door swung open away from her. The person who stood at the door made Molly's heart sink. She mustered the courage to look up at the woman at the door.

"Sergeant Donovan…" greeted Molly. Her voice was barely a whisper.  
"Ms Hooper." Sergeant Donovan replied nonchalantly.  
"Lestrade wants to know if you've got any news," she said, addressing Sherlock.  
"I can't give him any news if all of you keep coming to disturb me." he replied curtly from his seat at the other side of the room.  
"You're supposed to be the genius detective, the prodigy," remarked the sergeant, jeering in her voice. "It's been 12 hours and we've not had a word from you."  
"A lot's been done in the 12 hours, none of which would make sense to any of you."  
"Nothing about you makes sense to us, _freak_," retorted Sergeant Donovan. Molly clenched her jaw and had to keep calm. It always angered her when the sergeant called Sherlock that.  
"I'm just…going to make some coffee…" said Molly, excusing herself.  
"And you've stayed up all this while, just to be his coffee-run…personal assistant?" said Sergeant Donovan with a laugh as she turned back to look at Molly.

Sergeant Donovan's cruel eyes pierced sneeringly through Molly's. Taking a deep breath, Molly mustered an unsure half smile and replied, "I was assigned these bodies, Sergeant, I'm not…his personal assistant."  
"I bet you volunteered to get these bodies, knowing this freak would show up," laughed the Sergeant.  
"I…that's not….I was….This was a proper…assignment…"  
"You need to speak properly, Ms Hooper," interrupted Sergeant Donovan.  
"I-I…I am…." Molly said, fighting her nervous stammer.  
"You're a mouse, Molly, that's what you are." said Sergeant Donovan, sneering "A _mouse_."

A loud clatter interrupted the Sergeant as Sherlock got up violently, knocking the chair he was sitting on back against the wall. He strode fast and angrily towards the sergeant and looked icily at her, his eyes narrowing.

"What did you just say?" whispered Sherlock, his teeth clenched.  
"I said, your pathologist is a mouse, Sherlock," said Sergeant Donovan, unfazed, "A tiny, useless mouse. _Your_ mouse, scuttling around cluelessly for you…."  
"Cluelessly?" said Sherlock with a laugh, "You think _Molly_ is clueless?"  
"Evidently."  
"Leave now, please, Sergeant," Sherlock said, firmly.  
"Why? Because I hurt your mouse?" whispered Sergeant Donovan, taking a step towards Sherlock.

Sherlock stared down hard at the Sergeant, a cruel, mocking smile playing on her lips. He was used to all the names she had called him because it didn't matter to him. But the insult to Molly's intellect and to her character was a severe insult he could not take lying down.

"Sherlock….it's…it's okay…" Molly said, walking over to him. She placed her hand gently on his arm and tried to nudge him away from his standoff with Sergeant Donovan. Sherlock placed his hand over hers that rested on his arm. Molly panicked, realising she shouldn't have touched him and he was probably going to sweep her hand away. To her astonishment, he picked her hand up and placed it in his other hand, leaving them standing side by side, their hands held tightly together.

"Molly is no _mouse,_ Sergeant," Sherlock said, almost spitting the words out in vehemence at Sergeant Donovan.  
"Then tell her to stop acting like one." argued Sergeant Donovan, refusing to back down.  
"Molly is tougher than steel." Sherlock remarked, "As for being clueless, well…" Sherlock laughed and shook his head. "Do you know the difference between a cut made by two different blades? Can you tell the time of death by the colour of strangulation bruises? Has it occurred to you that calculating the growth rate of maggots on a rotting corpse is the most accurate calculator for death and decay? Do you even know the difference between the effects of processed nicotine and hand-rolled cigarettes on the lung capillaries? And I bet, Sergeant Donovan, with all your tough police training, you couldn't use a pair of tweezers to examine the underside of a dead man's tongue without your hands trembling, only to vomit violently after you've seen what's under it."

"Wh-what are you trying to say?" said the Sergeant, stunned by his outburst.  
"What I'm trying to say, Sergeant…" Sherlock replied, a smile growing, "…is that if anyone was _clueless_, it's you."  
"I am not…clueless." Sergeant Donovan retorted, feebly.  
"Molly doesn't like people getting hurt, Sergeant," said Sherlock, dropping his smile as his icy demeanour froze over again, "So do leave, before I have to _hurt _you."  
"You wouldn't dare…" said the sergeant, with a nervous little laugh.  
"That's where you're wrong, Sergeant," replied Sherlock menacingly, "You have no clue what _freaks like me_ can do."  
"I…You…" said the Sergeant, stuttering angrily.  
"I think you'd better leave, Sergeant."

Turning swiftly, Sergeant Donovan stomped out of the morgue, angrily slamming the door behind her. A smirk of victory appeared on Sherlock's face as Molly stood beside him, slightly dumbfounded by all that had transpired before her. Once she realised they were alone in the morgue and still holding hands, Molly stiffened and her hand in Sherlock's began to grow a bit cold.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, turning to smile cheekily at Molly, "You don't like us holding hands?"  
"No…I mean, yes, I mean…" Molly could barely answer as heat rushed to her face, painting her cheeks with blush.  
"Molly Hooper…" said Sherlock, turning to face her, now holding her hand in both of his.  
"Um..yes?" she answered, biting her lower lip.  
"You are not…and never will be a mouse." said Sherlock, staring right into her eyes. "Do you understand?"

Molly could not look back at him as she continued to blush. Her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked shyly, keeping her head low.

"Yes, I understand." she answered quietly, "Thank you, Sherlock."

As Molly continued to look down at her toes, Sherlock laughed quietly to himself as he released her hand, only to draw her to himself. He reached for Molly and held her warmly against him.

"Although, you _are_ clueless….sometimes…" said the detective.  
"What? What do you mean?" asked Molly, surprised she could speak, now that she was pressed against Sherlock.

The detective laughed again as he planted a firm kiss on Molly's forehead. Molly shut her eyes as she relished the comfort of his arms and the warmth of his lips on her skin. His lips were surprisingly soft and she bit her own lip, as she tried to shake the thought of what they'd feel like on her own.

"Never you mind, Molly Hooper," said Sherlock, as he gently pulled apart from her. He then leaned forward and gave her one more quick kiss on the nose. 'Never you mind."

Molly looked up at him, dizzy from the two kisses but puzzled by his statements. Sherlock read her expression and let out a cheeky laugh.

"Let's call it a night." he said, putting his arm around her as he led them out of the morgue.  
"But…the notes…your case…." said Molly, straining to look back at where she'd left her clipboard.

Sherlock used his other hand to reach for her face, turning it towards him and kissed her unexpectedly on the lips. The soft collision of his mouth on hers sent a wave of warm bliss through Molly's veins. She could barely breathe but what she didn't know was neither could Sherlock. When their faces parted, Molly had to bite her lip again.

"You really are clueless, Molly Hooper." Sherlock said to Molly, the corners of his mouth lifted in a handsome smile. She merely stared at him in response, her beautiful eyes wide and quizzical. That look of hers always tickled Sherlock and he chuckled to himself.

"Come, let's go."  
'Where are we going?" asked Molly.  
"To a place I know, for some dinner." he answered.  
"I didn't know you ate dinner…"  
"Well, tonight I am."  
"Right…but I've already had mine…" she said, regretfully.  
"Even freaks need dinner companions, Molly," said Sherlock, turning to her.  
"Sherlock, you're not a…."  
"Yes, Molly, I know," he said, looking fondly at her.

"Watch me have dinner?" he asked, eyes sparkling. Molly let out a laugh, her anxiety finally leaving her.  
"Of course…" she answered, slipping her hand back into his.  
"Excellent."

The detective then turned the morgue lights off as his favourite pathologist closed the morgue doors behind them. Quietly, the couple walked out of the hospital unnoticed by the late-night staff, slipping away into the night.


End file.
